Labels
by Jaya Mitai
Summary: A response to stereotypes in this fandom that bug me. NOTE RATING. Oneshot, spoilers. Ch. 1: A more realistic, dark look at the RoyxEd relationship. Ch. 2: Elricest by request
1. EdxRoy

**Disclaimer**: Full Metal Alchemist belongs to Hiromu Arakawa. No money is being made from this. Please don't sue.

**Content Warning**: While this fiction does not violate ToS, please note the rating. Intense and disturbing imagery and action follows. Sensitive or immature readers will want to stop at this point. Take my word for it.

**Author Diatribe**: This may become a series of one-shots as I find more stereotypes that bug me. As with my first FMA fic, **Perfect After All**, I try to fix things that don't make sense to me. The concept of Roy and Ed in an intimate situation bugs me. The reality of such a relationship is, oddly, less OOC than the romanticized versions I've stumbled across.

And it isn't pleasant.

The following will portray Ed and Roy in a more realistic intimate situation than is usually found here, and the only one I could really rationalize. Unlike most fic that deals with this subject, only one character will be OOC, and only slightly. This is not a warm and happy fic. It is **_completely unrelated_** to my previous FMA story. If you're looking for a good happy story, stop reading here. This is a character piece and my comment on irresponsible authors.

And it is NOT PLEASANT. You have been warned.

- x -

He didn't so much as twitch in the direction of the desk. He just stood there, barely far enough into the room that the door could be closed behind him, and stared.

It wasn't difficult to find the object of his single-minded interest. The desk was clear of most of the paperwork that normally cluttered the two trays marked 'In' and 'Out,' and the leather writing pad had only a few papers, neatly stacked. The inkwell and its beautifully carved occupant were far to the left, yet the boy's eyes were fixed on the center of the desk.

At the very edge, nearest the door, sat a juice tumbler containing about four ounces of a pearly white fluid.

He waited very patiently, leaning backwards in the somewhat reclinable chair, and studied the youth. Watched his serious eyes, shifting slightly as scenarios ran through his mind. Watched his face, completely impassive no matter his thoughts. Sometimes it was hard for him to remember that he wasn't dealing with an adult.

Sometimes not.

The boy remained exactly where he was for several minutes. Possibly hoping for a word, an action, any indication that he might be granted a reprieve. When nothing happened, he woodenly advanced across the room, standing beside the chair that faced the large walnut desk.

He never took his eyes off the tumbler.

"Have a seat, Fullmetal."

The golden eyes flicked to him, and they were anything but dull. The window behind the desk faced south, but the setting sun still projected enough light through to highlight the yellows and browns of his overgrown bangs.

"I'll stand, thanks."

He couldn't help a small smile at the defiance in that tone. It was a fight from start to finish with this one.

"Your choice." He let the words hang heavy in the air, though it was clear the stubborn boy knew they were no longer talking about the chair.

The youth didn't respond, other than to blink. He was distancing himself, something he'd started doing in the last few weeks. He wasn't actually sure if Edward knew he was doing it, but it was actually extremely helpful.

It made him seem almost as dazed when he walked into the office as he was when he walked out.

They regarded each other for a long moment, and he allowed his smile to broaden slightly.

"Nothing to say?"

A brief flash, nothing more. Edward was getting better at suppressing the emotions he didn't want anyone to see.

It also made him a little more dangerous. There was no doubt the thought of killing him had crossed the young alchemist's mind, and if not yet it would happen soon.

He leaned forward slowly in the chair, as if he didn't want to startle the boy with any sudden movements, and rested his elbows lightly on the desktop. He kept his face pleasant, and allowed his gaze to drop slowly from the boy's eyes, studying the lines of his exposed throat, the trim on the collar of his black jacket. He'd gotten as far as the tooled brown leather belt before the youth finally responded.

Ed reached out with his right hand, grabbing the tumbler by its rim. Then, in one smooth motion, he raised it to his lips and consumed the contents with a single audible swallow.

The boy then slammed it down, as though he didn't want to hold it one second more than was necessary. A bit of the liquid still clung to the sides of the glass, but there was no doubt he'd swallowed the vast majority of it.

He brought his eyes back up to see that the young alchemist was still staring directly at him, meeting his gaze. For a long moment they simply regarded one another, then he nodded his head once, breaking eye contact to smile in genuine pleasure.

"It's really not so bad, is it?"

"Try it sometime," the youth responded smoothly, tone just bordering on acid. "You might like it."

That made him chuckle. "Perhaps I will." In truth, he'd never tasted it, though he imagined from the scent of the powder that it produced a rather sweet flavor. Despite the fact that this delivery method had to travel through the digestive tract, the drug itself was readily absorbed through the skin of the mouth and esophagus, where the blood vessels ran extremely close to the surface.

He reached into his second desk drawer, withdrawing an unmarked book bound in thick brown leather.

"Shall we?"

The golden eyes flickered for a moment, and his throat bobbed as though he was preparing to speak. But his mouth never opened. He paused for a few seconds, giving the boy all the time in the world to protest, but the alchemist just stared at him flatly, possibly resenting that his patient silence was merely rubbing it in more deeply.

Aside from their brief verbal sparring, which the youth no longer seemed to enjoy, there was no other reason to delay.

He stood easily, tucking the book to his side as he rounded the desk. The boy's head didn't follow him; it seemed the Fullmetal Alchemist now preferred to stare out the window. Without so much as a glance he passed the boy, leaving his back open and exposed as he crossed the office.

Another demonstration of dominance, one he was certain was going unnoticed less and less often.

He stopped his measured stride only to pull open the office door, passing through and leaving it open behind him. Though it was after normal office hours, Lieutenant Hawkeye was still present at her desk. She stood immediately, saluting smartly.

"Colonel."

He returned the gesture much more casually. "At ease." He had completely passed her desk before he heard his office door close, and he cocked an ear back when Hawkeye spoke again.

"Are you heading home now, Edward?"

"Actually, we're heading to the library," he responded over his shoulder, not giving the boy time to respond. "Ed doesn't seem to understand that books aren't going to get away if he doesn't read them all as quickly as possible."

He turned slightly, ensuring that Hawkeye could see he was carrying a fairly thick book himself, and her smile was almost hidden and unusually motherly.

"You two aren't going to stay up all night in there, are you?"

Ed just snorted.

"I wouldn't wait for us." He kept his tone dry, and heard her sigh softly in reply as he rounded the corner.

They took the hall on the right and followed it until they came to a much smaller room, almost a utility closet. He had taken ownership of the room several years ago, when he'd been only a major, using it as a private library and research area. He still used it once on a blue moon for that purpose, and the enlisted man they passed didn't so much as blink to see the two of them heading for it.

He paused, withdrawing the small silver key from his watch pocket, and the well-oiled lock slid open soundlessly. By the time he'd replaced the key and opened the door, Edward had caught up.

The boy never flinched, just walked into the room, and he followed him, pulling the door firmly closed behind them. Only then did he flip the switch on the wall.

Due to the nature of his research, and his own preference, only a desk lamp actually illuminated when he used the power switch on the wall. It cast a strong white light on his work desk but tapered to yellows as it stretched across the room, so that only the surface of the desk was brightly lit. Neat rows of bookshelves held many tomes, both skinny and thick, and reams of notes he'd collected over the years. There were some tools of his trade, as well; a wrapped bolt of ignition cloth, the pieces of his first State Alchemy watch, even an old standard issue pistol, unloaded.

There was also an old, beat up green couch against the far wall, with a narrow end table bearing a small tin to one side. The chair by the desk was the only other piece of furniture not attached to the wall, and it was by it that Ed came to a stop, staring at the desk lamp.

"Fullmetal."

The boy's head began to rotate before his eyes unglued themselves from the lamp, and despite the relatively low ambient light, he could see the boy's gaze was not nearly as focused as it had been a few moments earlier.

He'd gotten him by Hawkeye just in time, then. Perhaps he'd finally found the correct dose.

He walked up to the boy, noting how sluggishly his eyes were tracking upwards. His right hand left his side swiftly, taking hold of the youth's braid ever so gently before wrenching his head back. It was almost a full second before those golden eyes reflexively flinched.

Edward had much better reflexes than that.

The boy resisted the rough treatment, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he fought the pressure of that hand, and he released him, let him stumble slightly on the thin carpeting.

"How do you feel?"

Edward almost never said anything to him at this point. As soon as they passed the doors, it was like the boy thought any sound at all would be an admission.

There had been a time he'd been thrilled at the child's silence, but now . . .

He wondered what it would take to open that clenched jaw.

"If you don't talk to me, how will I know?"

The boy had regained something akin to balance, and just stood, now a step from the desk, and stared at nothing. When he started towards him again, Edward twitched his head to the side, as if trying to shake off the effects, but before he could even refocus his eyes he seemed to have forgotten what it was he was doing.

Ed had left his red overcoat somewhere; probably in the main office. It was fairly warm outside, despite the fact it was still early March, and his black jacket wasn't even zipped. He moved around behind the boy, slipping his fingers beneath the collar and sliding the coat around his shoulders. Edward didn't resist; his automail picked up the glow of the desk lamp, but the rest of him lay in smooth, perfect shadow. His black tunic seemed to soak up the light his automail shoulder was trying to dully reflect, and he trailed his fingertips along the joint where his arm met his shoulder port.

"Can you help me, Edward?"

Though it took him a while to process, the boy obediently lifted his arms, and he had to bend slightly to grasp the hem of the sleeveless cotton shirt. His fingertips lightly brushed at the smooth, taut skin beneath, and he stepped closer, drawing the tunic over the boy's head and outstretched arms, leaning slightly into Edward's bared back.

"Thank you."

He planted a kiss on the top of that golden head, and the youth lowered his arms gracelessly.

The boy was still facing the desk lamp, and from his vantage behind him all he could see was the light as it trailed up to Edward's ear, then stopped in an indistinct line as it failed to make the gentle curve around his neck. It was there he concentrated, resting his head against the boy's, breathing deeply of him before drawing his lips over that one spot that seemed shaped exactly right for it. He was so perfectly shaped, though he was tiny for his age. Despite the automail. Or maybe because of it. The metal cooled his skin as the fingertips of his right hand continued to trace the edged joints there.

"Come with me."

It was a whisper, but the youth obeyed it as if it had been a hard-spoken command. Guided by his right hand, Edward turned from the lamp he'd been studying, allowing himself to be controlled both in direction and speed without resistance. He turned, gently pushing the boy down onto the old green couch, and when Ed stiffly sat, he stroked the boy's hair and cheek softly.

"Thank you."

The youth put up no resistance as his boots were removed, never so much as twitching even when his surprisingly heavier automail leg was manipulated. His limbs were fluid and relaxed, and the knotted shadow in his jawline was diminishing.

"You feel fine, don't you."

He never closed his eyes, but his blinks would become few and far between. Seated on the couch as he was, he was still facing the desk lamp, and his eyes almost glowed.

They were such a unique color. Warm, but not red –

He turned away from the young alchemist abruptly, removing his own jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair, over the smaller, darker one he'd already placed there. Not only was the carpet thin and threadbare, but it released what little fiber was left in clumps of fuzz, that would show up quite well on the tightly knit fabric that made up Ed's uniform.

His own undershirt was removed soon after, being laid atop the others. It was too much of a hassle to unlaces his boots – they never spent enough time here to warrant it, anyway. It had taken him relatively little time to get to this point, but now that he was, he didn't want to rush things. Everything he did was introduced gradually but regularly, so Ed had time to get used to it.

There was no doubt the drug was helping him relax.

He turned back towards the boy, knowing he was completely shadowed by the light behind him. Edward was in exactly the same position as before, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his hands palm-up on the cushions beside him. His expression was the same curious blank one he'd been assuming recently, and though his eyes glinted in the lamplight, he knew the young alchemist couldn't have summoned either the desire or the strength to do much more than remain where he was without toppling.

"Edward, can you stand for me?"

An owlish blink was his only response, and he came over to the boy slowly, putting a hand beneath his chin.

"Stand for me."

The boy's face was just even with his trousers' zipper, and he had to hold himself back as Ed's gentle exhale tickled his bared stomach. His head never shifted, and he never looked up. It was as though he could see right through the man standing in front of him, and was watching some distant, captivating event. He pulled the boy's face up, to look at him, and he smiled when he felt a softness in that jaw, rather than the rock-hard muscles that bunched beneath his soft skin in the light of day.

He was able to pull the boy to his feet without much effort; apparently Ed had merely been waiting for an invitation. Standing, the youth's face barely came up to his chest, and his chin dipped back down as he released it. He stroked the boy's cheek with the back of his hand, but received no response.

"Thank you."

Ed's tooled belt was made of fine, well-oiled leather, and smelled very much of the soap that he used occasionally on his brother's leather pads. It slid from the belt loops easily, and he slung it over the back of the couch. He no longer needed to actually use it for any purpose, but he was too far from the desk, now, and he wasn't sure the boy would remain standing on his own.

Perhaps he'd overdone it, this time.

Ed's trousers were like most adults'; a single dull black button. They slipped from his hips easily. He wore loose-fitting pants to allow him to fight, and while the waist was normally cinched tightly by his belt, once it was removed, they fit no more tightly than any pajama bottoms might. His boxers were white with blue stripes, and he couldn't help a grin as he realized from where they'd been purchased.

"I had no idea we frequented the same clothier."

Once the youth was unwrapped, he stepped aside, moving out of the way to admire the child in the lamplight. He was in such good condition. He'd never seen another boy his age that looked quite like he did. Lithe and wiry, but still with that velvet, perfect skin that could not be found on the most pampered adult.

"You know where I want you to lay."

Ed didn't move, though he did remain on his feet. Whether it was his only expression of protest, or he was simply too relaxed to care about obeying anymore, was debatable. He put his hands on each of the child's shoulders, turning him gently from the lamp so that he was facing one arm of the old couch. He'd piled one of the three main cushions on top of the middle one, and it was there he gently pushed the boy onto his stomach.

"Thank you."

Ed allowed his arms to fall at his sides, the first time he'd done so, and his head had turned towards the desk lamp again.

He always watched it. At first he'd thought it was because it was on the same side of the room as the door, but now he wondered if the drugs didn't create interesting halos around the light. It gave him something to focus on, certainly, and it seemed to soothe him.

"Isn't that comfortable, Edward?"

The boy didn't respond. His back was curved a bit over the cushions, and each vertebrae of his spine made an enormous, hilled shadow on the far side of his back. He loved that back; so well-muscled, but not in an awkward or excessive way. More like he would imagine a cat would be muscled, hard and lean. But so soft. He trailed a hand along the youth's shoulder, tracing from the back of his neck all around, letting his fingertips exert the most pressure, gauging how tense that back was.

It was still firm to the touch, but it didn't flinch. He wasn't shivering this time, either.

He knelt on the covered springs of the base of the couch, letting his chest come in contact with that perfect flesh, nuzzling deep into the boy's well-kept hair. He'd often wanted to take it down, but he was afraid Ed wouldn't have the dexterity to rebraid it after their meetings. How it would be to run his hands through it, wrap it around his fingers and pull –

He breathed deeply into Ed's neck, slipping between the boy's kneeling legs and leaning hard into him. The cushions propped him up at just the right height, and he laid his cheek on the back of the boy's head, his eyes finding the lamp as his hands partially removed the barrier of his own trousers.

He glanced down at the illuminated face beneath his, looking for a reaction as he pressed his bared skin against the youth's. There was none. Not anymore. It wasn't a new sensation, after all. As before, he slowly drew himself up and down, rubbing himself into the fold there. It was maddeningly difficult for him to maintain a relaxed pace, but he put a sharp rein on his breathing, listening to the body that lay so unresistingly beneath him.

Ed was blinking, but otherwise his gaze was trained on the lamp, and he didn't so much as frown.

He'd been so foolish to worry, the first few times. Worry that the youth would cry out, or worse. What he was doing was so much more pleasant than automail installation, and even before the powder, even when he'd been completely aware and completely unable to relax and enjoy himself, he'd never made a sound. Now it was difficult to even get an increase in his breathing.

Something to work on.

He reached over the boy, arching down harder against him as his body stretched pleasurably over the warmth beneath him. His right hand found the coffee table, and on it the tin. Ed's eyes didn't even flicker as he heard the lid being unscrewed, and the almost spicy aroma of the grease-based lotion didn't seem to cause a reaction, either.

But he was still quite obviously conscious.

He buried his face in the boy's braid as he applied the lubricant, half to muffle a moan and half to distract himself from the sensation. His fingers didn't need his eyes to seek out what they were looking for, and for the first time, Ed shifted his head, ever so slightly.

"Do you like that, Edward?"

He was easily able to slip a slightly greased finger inside the boy, and he received a faint twitch in response. A little exploring netted him a slow and difficult swallow.

"You do like that, don't you."

Ed's eyes were still sightlessly focused on the lamp, but his breathing had become more pronounced, and hitched as he joined the first digit with a second.

He wouldn't have to hurt him this time.

He was relaxed.

Finally.

"You'll like this more."

He leaned up off of that inviting back, instantly missing both the heat and the contact of skin on his own. Ever so gently, he pulled the flesh and muscle apart, making room to most easily position himself. He was more than ready for this; he'd never really thought that he'd ever do this with another one, certainly not anyone both as stubborn and as malleable as this boy.

He never thought circumstances would drop someone this amazing right into his lap.

Not after Ishbal.

His hips moved themselves; one moment he was trying to push memories out of his mind's eye and the next he was fighting not to completely bury himself into a bottom that might not be ready for all of him. Despite the fact that his eyes were still glued to the lamp, the boy's back arched, and his thighs tensed, curling down to clamp around his own. The automail exerted quite a bit more force, but still wasn't strong enough to hurt.

"Relax, Edward. We'll just stop here for now." He kept himself as still as he could, more than half buried in the boy. Probably more than far enough, but he wanted all of it. It was so warm inside, so soft and close.

He bent at the waist, trying to reconnect with the boy, but the change in attitude was too much for him, and he found himself slowly sliding forward. It was torture; how could he not? Once he was there, it was easier to bend his forehead to the back of the youth's neck, taking deep, slow breaths.

Edward was starting to tremble, and he wrapped the boy in his arms.

"Relax. You're safe."

Once the youth's hitched breathing became a little more regular again, he dared to withdraw slightly, almost biting the flesh beneath his mouth as he pushed back inside. It was getting too difficult; if he stared at the lamp, he couldn't help himself, and his body moved of its own will. Each stroke was getting easier; either the boy had relaxed or he'd torn something. No matter; there was enough slickness now that he wouldn't do any more damage.

Beneath him, with every push, Ed was responding. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes were fighting to stay open. When he felt the back beneath his chest tense, he managed to pause himself, trying to listen over his own harsh breathing.

On a whim, he brought his right hand to the boy's side, slipping it beneath him. Taut muscles met his searching fingers, and suddenly Edward flinched beneath him.

He laughed, kissing the neck and shoulder beneath his lips. "I told you you'd like this more."

It was simple physiology, after all. The youth was of age, and with the amount of stimulation he was getting coupled with the other effects of the drug –

That was the beauty of it. Non-addicting on its own, but psychologically was another matter altogether.

He shifted to his left hip, so that he could take some of the pressure off the boy's right side. He was laying on the automail leg, now, so he knew he wasn't hurting him. With more room to maneuver, he leaned to boy partially to his side, so that they were more beside one another than one on top of the other. He propped himself up with his left arm, and his right began to explore more thoroughly. The boy was blinking rapidly now, and seemed to be gulping air.

"Relax, Edward. It's all right."

Just the sound of the youth's suddenly labored breathing was driving him crazy. He began to grind against him, utilizing his thumb and forefinger in a way that made the child's hips buck.

And then he made a sound.

It was halfway between a moan and a word, but very soft. It was as though he'd actually meant to speak but had been trying to hold back anything else.

"Nn."

"Shhh," he soothed. He didn't want to hear that word.

Edward had never used that word. Not yet.

The boy ducked his head and shuddered, and the feeling of that quivering flesh against his was more than his own already-strained control could handle. He pounded in harder, earning another near-word.

Edward's automail arm began to move, and he pinned it to the boy's side with his own. Normally he wouldn't have had the strength to do it while continuing his attentions, but it was clear the youth wasn't fighting with even half his strength.

"Ss-stop-"

". . . relax . . ."

Ed's eyes were wide, and his mouth was now stretched open, his lips struggling but his breath not cooperating.

He closed his eyes tightly, laying his head atop the youth's and trying desperately to slow himself down. It was a lost cause; it was all coming faster now, and as the boy began to tremble in earnest against him, he couldn't help himself.

It had been so long. Such a very long time.

Edward shuddered more strongly, trying to curl away, and the tiniest whimper left his lips. For a moment he was afraid he'd hurt the boy, but then warmth flooded over his right hand.

At the same time contracting muscles clamped down deliciously around him, ending further worry. He curled his right hand into the tight stomach muscles bunching beneath Edward's fluid-slicked skin, yanking the boy against him, and he couldn't temper his final thrust. He bit off his own exclamation by burying his face into the slightly sweating back in front of him, and he held himself pressed against that body for a long time.

When he had control of his breathing and his voice back, he picked up his head, reaching up to carefully brush the damp bangs out of the youth's face without smearing them.

"Thank you."

Then he froze.

Edward's eyes were seeing. They were staring at the lamp, but they were focused.

And they were terrified.

He hastily rolled fully to his side, slipping out and pulling the youth over his left arm as he did so. He wrapped the shaking boy in a tight embrace, laying his cheek over Ed's right ear and rocking him gently.

"It's all right, Edward. It's all right. That's supposed to happen."

He couldn't look like that.

He couldn't look frightened like that.

He couldn't look at him if he looked like that.

- x -

He turned on the shower and stepped in immediately, before it even had a chance to warm up. It didn't really matter; his skin was numb again, and his stomach was churning.

He hated that stuff. It always made him feel sick.

But he'd be nauseous either way.

He stood under the spray for a very long time, waiting for the droplets beating down on him to register. Temperature, pressure, sensation. Everything was muted, and he knew that he should take advantage of it while it was still in effect.

But he didn't want to. Not this time.

He didn't want to even look at his body, let alone touch it. Wash it. As if soap could do anything to rinse this feeling off his skin.

Under his skin.

Ed found he had wrapped his arms around his chest, and he leaned his forehead into the shower wall in front of him, letting the water cascade down his back. It was warm now. He could smell the steam though he could barely tell the temperature. He was probably burning himself. He was probably turning red.

He needed to. Needed to be completely lobster red, so that Al wouldn't see that raw spot, below the small of his back, where the man's coarse hair chafed it, over and over and over –

It amazed him how little could actually be seen. From the back, despite what he knew had happened, he looked like he always did. Outside of that red patch of chafed skin, everything was completely invisible.

He'd bled a lot, this time. He wasn't even sure he knew where it was coming from. He wasn't even sure he wasn't supposed to. Who could he ask? Havoc? Breda? How likely were they to just answer the question and not follow it with a dozen of their own?

It wasn't as though he could go to the base doctor, either.

His clothes lay in a heap on the bathroom floor, and once again he was glad he had chosen to wear black. His boxers had had it; he'd have to transmute them into the floor or down the sink. They'd pulled a little tackily at his flesh as he'd peeled them off, and the sudden, sharp stinging that had cut through the haze told him he was going to have a hard time moving tomorrow.

It was always so hard to hide body aches from Al. The moment he saw anything less than his brother's normally fluid movement, he noted that the best cure for stiffness was exercise, and would attack him accordingly. Sparring with Al on the best day was difficult and required all of his strength and flexibility; the last time, he had thought he was going to give the pain away.

And if he was still bleeding now -

Ed found his chin resting on the tub faucet. He didn't recall sliding down the shower wall.

How long could he keep this up?

How many times could this happen before he couldn't hide it anymore?

He shifted his legs beneath him, and a slow, burning pain crawled through his abdomen. Ed dared to look down at the floor of the tub, expecting the water to be running pink, but saw only the white tub floor, white swirling water.

And himself.

So he wasn't bleeding anymore.

That was something, wasn't it?

He sat there for a long time, unable to find the motivation to stand. Only when his real leg started to fall asleep did Ed move, leaning heavily on his automail and waiting for the sudden rush of dizziness to pass. He'd given him more than usual this time.

Probably as a 'reward'. No matter how sick it made him feel, it was –

It was easier.

Ed clenched his eyes shut and pressed his fists into them until he was blinded by stars.

It was easier.

Was he really this weak? Was he really so helpless?

The bastard had probably given him that much for being good and getting his reports in on time. For staying in Central.

Then again, he was getting every local assignment that could be dreamed up. He couldn't refuse the assignments, couldn't refuse the meetings –

Couldn't refuse any of it.

Not if he wanted to keep Al out of a laboratory.

He hadn't explicitly said it. It was just implied, something he knew the second he'd seen that damnable smile on the man's face -

Just the idea of it made him clench his jaw, and Ed shook his head sharply, reaching for the soap. He had forgotten to get a washcloth, which was just as well; one less thing to stain. He started with his hands, eager to get the smell off them, then his face –

It was almost like he could still feel the man's breath on the back of his neck.

His choice. What a joke.

He had no choice at all.

He had to say one thing for whatever it was that bastard kept giving him; it made him relax. He was sure he'd be covered with bruises if not for the fact that once he'd taken it, he was really not capable of feeling much of anything. No anger, no disgust, no anticipation. Everything hurt just the same, but he couldn't worry about it enough to tense up.

He hesitated before running the bar of soap over his stomach as viciously as possible, scrubbing as hard as he could with the cake. That bastard had wiped it off before he'd been allowed to put his pants back on, but the fact that it was there at all –

He hated it.

Didn't he?

He'd never done that before. Never . . . responded like that. He didn't know that he _could_. He didn't even know why. It was like his body was reacting without his mind. Even when he'd tried to think of something else, distance his mind like sensei had taught them to when meditating, it hadn't made any difference.

It had hurt a lot more, this time. Every time he'd pushed further in, it had hurt more, but then he'd felt something else, something overwhelming and heady and –

The water was definitely hot. He could feel it now.

He could feel.

He could feel the man's warm hand, snaking between the cushion and his stomach. He'd jerked at the touch, but it hadn't hurt, and he'd had nowhere to go. The man had stopped – what he'd been doing, and had taken him between his thumb and forefinger, and just slid his fingers back and forth, like Havoc sometimes played with his cigarettes.

And then he'd – shifted, behind him, inside him, and -

Ed closed his eyes, and very gently started exploring the damage.

He carefully pulled the skin apart, letting the water rinse the clots towards the drain. Everything felt sore and swollen, but his left fingertips couldn't feel any ragged edges, any cuts –

So it was inside, then.

He was bleeding inside.

He was as gentle as he could be with the soap, but part of him wanted to tear into himself the same way that bastard did. So he could wash out all the filth and send it down the drain too. He knew some had already trickled out when he'd accepted the ride home; his boxers had had a slight wet spot that was too slippery to be simply blood.

He'd have to transmute it out of them before he went back outside.

Luckily it hadn't soaked through. He wasn't sure he could have explained that to Lieutenant Hawkeye. And she certainly would have taken him to the base hospital. Where they'd ask him questions, the ones he wasn't allowed to answer, and then -

He took a deep breath, willing himself not to panic, and scrubbed himself down again, as if it would help. Then he reached for the shampoo. His real hand was starting to pucker from all the water, and he realized that Al hadn't yet knocked on the door.

Al always knocked on the door when he thought he was taking too long in the shower.

He rinsed his hair quickly and turned off the shower noisily, just to make sure Al would hear the facets squeaking. Once the curtain was pulled back he reached for the towel hanging beside it, gingerly stepping out onto the bathmat. They shared a single room within the dorms, but were lucky enough to have a private bathroom, if only to keep Al's interaction with the others to hallway activities only.

After all, his little brother didn't need to pee, either. Every once in a while he had to jump in the shower because of the food he had to fake eating to throw off suspicion.

Mustang could use that card whenever he wanted to. Giving in to him, to this –

He had to find the Stone. It was the only way to stop this. To get his little brother's body back. Once Al had a flesh and blood body, the lab experiment threat was pointless –

But he could always threaten to simply kill Al then.

Ed toweled himself off carefully, and once again contemplated how hard it would really be to kill Roy Mustang.

There was the softest knock at the door, and Ed almost jumped through the ceiling. Tensing his abdominal muscles pulled at the insides, and Ed squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden pain.

"Nii-san?"

- x -

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye hung the keys on the hook beside the officer's coat rack, frowning to herself as she adjusted the topmost button on her collar and strode across the office. His door was open; when she was within easy speaking distance, she cleared her throat, and her commanding officer looked up from the document he was perusing.

"Did he get home okay?"

She just nodded, coming to stand in front of his desk at parade rest. A quick glance found nothing out of place; his inbox was more full than his outbox, the document he was looking over was not the most urgent in the pile, and his ignition gloves were laying on the side of his desk. On the edge of the desk closest to the guest chair was a juice tumbler, and she took a step forward, confirming the pearly white ring at the bottom of the glass really was liquid and not the papers it was sitting on.

"You gave him milk?"

Mustang glanced over at the glass, his face thoughtful before he smiled. "Oh. Yes. Every time he reports I make him drink a little bit. I'm sure, over time, he'll grow to enjoy it." He leaned forward and plucked up the glass before she could hand it to him, swiveling in his chair to put it on the cafeteria tray behind him.

Edward Elric enjoying milk was not something she was expecting to happen in her lifetime. "Maybe that was why he seemed so dazed." She said it lightly, but was glad that his expression flickered to one of concern at the content.

"He seemed distracted when he arrived," Roy agreed softly. "I asked him if anything was wrong, but he didn't give it away. I didn't see any injuries, but it's hard to tell with him sometimes."

"I asked him too," she replied, and his attention sharpened significantly. "He said the same thing," she added quickly. "He wouldn't tell me."

The colonel just nodded, a thoughtful frown marring his otherwise calm face. "I'll continue giving him all the local assignments, just so we can keep an eye on both of them. Hopefully whatever's on his mind will either resolve itself or he'll open up to one of us."

The first lieutenant nodded again, and he stared at her for a second. "Why did you come back, anyway? I thought you were dropping him off on your way home?"

She fought back a smile. "I noticed you'd been putting in a lot of overtime lately, colonel. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help."

He leaned back contemplatively. "Would you do my paperwork for me?"

"Not in your wildest dreams."

He chuckled. "Then no, I'm fine. I think these budget reports and I are going to stay here a while."

She knew a dismissal when she heard one, and saluted once. "Don't stay up too late."

He smiled, one of the rare, relaxed ones. "Goodnight, Hawkeye."

"Goodnight, sir."

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Well, not much to say that I didn't say above. Canonically, Mustang is universally caring to his subordinates. No matter how mature Ed is, and no matter how much Ed might behave like an adult to be treated like an adult, there is no way Mustang would ever enter an intimate relationship with a child. _Particularly_ Ed, who had enough problems as it is. There is no doubt in my mind that Mustang would look at that as a terrible abuse of his power as an authority figure, and as abuse to Ed himself.

This setup might seem familiar – I came across two separate fics with this premise. Mustang takes Ed to a secluded room during work and the two have happy consensual sex.

I found it outrageously improbable enough to write this response. I understand that it's just fiction, and people can write whatever the hell they want, at least in this country. But Roy/Ed actually makes me angry. I think the reason for that might be because I know that those that would take advantage of children in that manner are also the sorts of people who wouldn't hesitate to abuse an animal, and that is something I will not tolerate.

If there are any other stereotypes you've seen in this fandom that you'd like me to take a look at, suggest away! I apologize for any typos; it was too hard to ask for a beta of this. Well-written flames will be posted to a public website and mocked.


	2. Elricest

Disclaimer in previous chapter. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

**Content Warning**: While this chapter is significantly more mild than the previous installment, some slightly disturbing imagery and action follows, mainly incest. Sensitive readers beware, but most will probably be able to handle it.

**Author Diatribe**: I threatened to make this a series of one-shots, and it looks like I'm going to. Aino Hikaru and Anon-i-mouse requested I take a look at Elricest. It doesn't bug me as much as EdxRoy, but it's just as unlikely. I considered trying to fix the 'Ed crawls into Al's armor and jacks off' scenario, but that was simply too ridiculous even for me, so I went with the suggestion of post-Shamballa Al and Ed.

As before, in order to make any of these work, only one character is OOC, and only slightly.

Thanks to inkydoo for the beta!

- x -

It was a long time before he figured out why there was blood on the pillowcase.

He'd heard the sound three or four times before he put it together. Always in the earliest hours of the morning, long after he'd fallen asleep. It wasn't until he was woken by a slight shaking of the bed that he realized the nightmares always preceded it.

But once he'd made that connection, it made sense.

It was a very rhythmic sound, slow and purposeful and soft. Too precise to be ocean waves, though that was what it most reminded him of; a constant, fabric-shifting sound that wasn't jarring enough to wake him unless he was already sleepless.

They had many of those nights, when they'd first returned. Back to the mansion, to Eckhart's minions. To the gate Hohenheim had transmuted in a foreign place called Europe. At first he'd thought Al was adjusting well; he'd always been relatively optimistic even as a child, and it seemed a part of his personality rather than his upbringing. He'd grown up twice, after all, once as iron and once as a little boy, but he didn't seem to have difficulties reconciling the two sets of memories.

Until he fell asleep.

Ed was only able to let it go twice after he figured it out. He thought it would be better to give Al room to get used to having those memories, and that it was just his adjusting phase. Al never spoke of the nightmares, never indicated that anything was the matter. He stifled his yawns and when he got caught, he laughed it off as being spoiled by his life before his brother had returned. He blamed it on lumpy mattresses and his brother's cold elbow on the tiny beds they shared in squalid hostels.

The one thing they didn't have much of, at first, was money. Ed refused to risk hitting Hohenheim's stash, afraid the Thules were still watching. They lived on currency and items they stole from the house when they left, and some nights were spent beneath a ceiling of stars rather than mortar and stone.

Those were the nights he couldn't sleep himself. He'd lay awake and stare at the unfamiliar sky and wonder how it was the world could be so parallel but have such an alien night. Not a single constellation was recognizable.

It had probably started then. With the gentle evening wind, it would have been easy for Al to hide the sound. He could imagine those fingers brushing the blades of grass, feeling each texture and sharp edge of each leaf, over and over again.

Reassuring himself that he could feel. That his hand was not empty leather, tied to empty metal. That it was still his flesh and blood fingers.

He knew if he'd lost the automail he'd have probably done the same thing.

Even when Ed finally braved the bank and got them more money, they tried to spend it modestly. There were often no rooms with double beds, and winter was well on its way to the terrified continent. There had been no reason to separate.

And so Al had had to work harder to hide it from him. Al knew he was a light sleeper, so there could be no getting out of bed without drawing attention. Anything rough would have made noise. So he took the edge of the sheet or the pillowcase between his fingers, whiling away the hours after his nightmares by finding each stitch in the darkness, over and over again.

Ed wasn't sure when he first really noticed it, but he knew that it had been increasing in frequency; both the nightmares and the amount of time it took Al to calm back down. It must have been happening almost nightly before he found the blood; they wore gloves when they worked odd jobs or traveled, and Al usually was able to fall asleep by the false dawn, giving the torn and bloodied pads of his fingertips more than long enough to crust over.

It had been an accident, really, when he'd been taking their used linens down to the laundry girl. They'd been an off-white set, so the smears had stood out far more brightly than they might otherwise have.

And after that, he'd listened for it.

The first time he'd confronted Al, he hadn't even spoken. He had taken to sleeping on his right side, since leaving the automail exposed to air made him chilly. It usually meant he took the right side of the bed, so that he was facing outwards, giving his brother more room on their crowded mattress. It meant he was always showing his brother his back.

So he'd turned, opening his eyes and settling on his left side, and gazed thoughtfully at his brother.

Al had looked . . . almost frightened. As if he thought Ed was more upset to have been awoken than because he was having nightmares. Ed hadn't said anything, just pulled his left hand – his real hand - up and wrapped Al's fingers in it.

Then he'd closed his eyes and gone back to sleep. When he'd woken a few hours later, it had been to see Al's peacefully sleeping face, his fingers relaxed and still in his grasp.

The second time, only a few nights later, he'd turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling rather than his brother.

"You're going to wear them down to the bone if you keep that up," he'd noted softly, and the sound had stopped almost immediately. Ed was pretty sure he'd fallen asleep briefly before Al answered.

"Sometimes they go so numb I can't feel at all."

"They wouldn't if you'd stop rubbing them raw." It was too easy to slip into their previous roles; Al was possibly more deferential now than he had been when they'd been boys, but at the same time he was more mature. Quieter. In many ways less outgoing, but still so innocent.

They didn't discuss it further, but it was obvious it wasn't just the memories of the armor that were bothering Al. He blamed himself for a lot of things. For the automail. For the deaths in Central caused by Eckhart's invading forces. For the deaths of Wrath and Gluttony. He'd just received six years' worth of memories, all the horrible things they'd seen in their search for the Stone. It wasn't surprising that he'd been a little subdued.

And it wasn't surprising that a gentle rebuke from his brother, no matter how he respected him, didn't magically end the dreams. Al simply found something softer. Something less damaging.

The first time he was aware of it was because he'd actually taken down his braid before they'd lain down for the night. That was several weeks after their first and last conversation on the topic of Al's nightmares, which meant it had probably happened several times before. That night, Al had accidentally caught a shorter hair, and the subtle tug had been enough to make him tangentially aware.

There was never any blood in his hair, so he figured it was an acceptable substitute. It seemed to calm Al down a lot faster, and he'd always been fascinated with his hair anyway, as armor – he'd never dared to do anything with his own horsehair ponytail, but on occasion he used to beg his older brother to let him braid his hair. He'd claimed it helped with his dexterity, and while Ed always felt guilty about having hair to play with at all, he felt worse not letting Al braid it for him.

He felt the same flavor of guilt now, only the reason wasn't quite as simple as all that.

Despite having had the automail for years and years, and finer and finer models, the touches were so slight that he couldn't feel them. He couldn't even hear them; if not for the fact that the scarred flesh around the port still had some feeling, he never would have known he was being touched at all.

It had to be around three am. They were staying in a bed and breakfast in northern France, in a reasonably sized room for once, and Al had been up late, working on their equations. He'd been right to question Einstein's theory, and they'd been debating it on the ferry pretty much the entire way there. He'd fallen asleep on his stomach, facing away from the lamp, and it meant that he was all but presenting the automail to Al.

And it was obvious his brother thought he was asleep.

Ed remained quite still, feeling that doing anything, giving it away, would just make Al feel worse. Yes, Al was whole and he wasn't. He didn't really care. Sure, the automail hurt, and he had no mechanic to assist if it broke. He still had the spare limbs Hohenheim had created for him, and even if not –

It was such a small price to pay, to know that it had worked. He'd gotten Al's body back to him.

He hadn't gotten something for nothing, but he hadn't given something and gotten nothing in return either.

Only he was sure Al didn't see it that way.

Now that he was awake, it was harder to ignore the slight tickles of Al's fingertips on his actual skin. The scarring was partly from the arm being ripped off, and partly from the fox bite he'd gotten on the island. Neither was Al's fault, though he could probably find a reason to blame himself for either or both. He felt Al exploring it ever so hesitantly, and had nearly drifted off before a slight tug on his scalp attracted his attention.

Had Al drifted off over the books and had another dream?

Edward wanted to turn over, talk to him. Maybe if Al just explained what he was feeling, he wouldn't be so trapped by it. Ed knew he couldn't hope to understand what it had to be like, reconciling the same years together in two different bodies, two different lives . . . his relationships with Pinako, Winry, Mustang, how they must have been different, or the same . . . all the comments people had made to his human ears that he hadn't understood until he'd recovered the memories of hearing them through vibrations in the iron rather than as voices . . .

Al's breathing was audible, which was unusual. He was normally pretty good at remaining silent. Even if he hadn't had a nightmare, staring at the automail like that . . . how many times as armor had Al watched him sleep, blamed himself for that shining metal arm and leg?

And now, in this world without alchemy, all the math in the world wasn't going to return his limbs.

Was that why Al was so upset?

Al had picked up his hair, and the sound of his fingers being pulled between the strands was kind of soothing. His brother was very careful not to snag any of it, for fear of waking him, probably, and he wondered, how many times had Al wondered what it felt like, when he'd braided it?

He had his own now, obviously, so Ed would have thought the appeal had worn off. After all, in half his memories he didn't know what it was like to be without hair.

And in those memories, he'd grown it out so it matched his brother's. The famous Edward Elric.

Ed kept his eyes closed, and tried not to sigh.

Al wasn't the only one walking around with guilt.

How could Roy have let him go? If the bastard were there he would wring his condescending, arrogant neck. Eyepatch or no. Al would have been better off in Amestris, helping the people, using alchemy. He didn't need to be schlepping around this foreign world trying to find a uranium bomb.

He didn't need two sets of memories and a brother that was both a total stranger and his best friend.

Al's breathing hitched, and Ed very nearly moved. While Al had never been able to weep for what he had lost as a soul, he was certain the human Al had shed tears since their mother's death. It would only make Al uncomfortable if he responded now, and maybe that was just what he needed.

To mourn for what they had lost. To accept it and move forward, because they couldn't go back.

Not ever, according to Einstein.

Was that what Al had discovered?

Al's fingers brushed the nape of his neck, and Ed suppressed a reflexive flinch. His brother seemed to be more daring now, as if he was certain his older brother was really asleep, and his breathing was still quick and shallow. As though they couldn't touch in the light of day. As though he couldn't look at the automail, couldn't ask.

There was this distance between them, and Ed didn't know how to bridge it. Was it his approval Al wanted? Was it to be treated the same? He wasn't . . . wasn't the same Al, somehow. He was still Al, and in many ways he was better, but there was something a little disconcerting about how much Al had tried to be . . .

Tried to be him.

As if the Edward Elric that everyone had told him about wasn't the same Edward he'd known before.

Maybe Al was having the same problem he was. They just didn't know how to relate anymore.

They didn't know how to be brothers anymore.

It was only after the warmth left that Ed realized it hadn't been Al's fingers touching him.

The sensation repeated.

And again.

Edward remained still, feigning slumber, and it was a long time before he was able to fall asleep again.

- x -

**Author's Notes:** Well, there you have it. And frankly, as far as incest goes, it's not nearly as creepy as it is just sad. I can't think of any other rationalization that would combine these two brothers intimately; they're brothers. Any perceived sexual desire on either of their parts is purely the work of bored fans with that particular kink, and has no justification whatsoever in either the anime or the manga.

Even if Al gets touch-happy after getting a real body, Ed would never reciprocate those actions; it's the job of the big brother to protect the younger brother, not molest him. If Scar couldn't beat that into the audience I know I can't, and as before, I know people can write whatever the hell they want, but Elricest is even further out of the scope of justifiable stretching than EdxRoy.

The next will either deal with WinryxEd, or RizaxRoy per request. Reactions welcome. Well-written flames will be posted to a public website and mocked.


End file.
